


Impatience

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Series: Polar Opposites [2]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Fluff, M/M, Masochistic Dismas, PWP, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Slightly Abusive Rey, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26811775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: Dismas likes to be reckless, and Reynauld has no patience for it.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Series: Polar Opposites [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955455
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	Impatience

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for not posting this sooner, yesterday was pretty hectic. I'll post another bit of Reymas smut Monday for you to make up for it. Once again, this is a lot, and it's pretty explicit for being my first official smut. You've been warned.

**Impatience**

Sometimes when a dungeon was going particularly poorly, Reynauld would get in these moods.

Dismas _loved_ when Reynauld fell into these certain tempers, voice taut and words curt, like he had no energy to spare his normal all-enduring patience. His usual geniality, his soft spoken verses and annoying Light-drenched forbearance. His blessed fucking attitude, his holier-than-thou, tight-lipped smile as he watched Dismas play cards or tell dirty jokes around the campfire.

There was _none_ of that here. 

Instead, he was all sharp retorts and stiff posture, blunt and brass and agitated. He had even snapped at poor Junia, who ducked her gaze and apologized profusely, for everything, for nothing. For Reynauld's deliciously ill temper, rare as a virgin whore and twice as tempting to Dismas. 

The Prophet had put the holy Crusader on edge, as he was always prone to do with his profane gibberish that shook the Light in the normally unshakeable man, and when Dismas had been woefully buried beneath the mad Prophet's prognostication, Reynauld seemed to snap. The battle was short-lived after that, his rallying cries and zealous condemnation all but damning the gibbering lunatic back to the pits with a harsh, critical slice of his zweihander. When he pulled Dismas from the rubble of ruin, stones and wreckage tossed with such a powerful anger that the others feared to approach, Dismas couldn't help but smile. 

Smile at their victory, smile at his own narrow and luck-blessed survival, smile at the way Reynauld's fists clenched around his coat and drew him close, furiously almost.

There was dust in his nose and mouth. He was dazed, eyes blackened, sanity cracking and blood at his lips, coating his grin red. But no matter how close to a killing blow Dismas came, no matter how long he was at death's door, no matter how _stunned_ and _battered_ he was, Dismas _knew_ that tone in Reynauld. It struck a match in his aching body that seared through the pain, like a muscle memory straight to his core. 

The Crusader waited, impatiently, for their Vestal to heal Dismas' many wounds and broken bones after they made camp. After Reynauld helped him limp to meager safety, gauntlets fisted in Dismas' coat and voice hard, edged like a razor against Dismas' neck, his hair, his ear. Wherever Reynauld bent to murmur low, menacing scoldings, too quiet for the others to hear as he dragged his sorry ass from room to room, Dismas felt it like a hot promise right in his groin.

Dismas knew this mood, and he _loved_ it. 

Insanity licked at Dismas' mind and that only made him more eager, more desperate and needy, for when Reynauld finally grabbed him by the collar like a misbehaved kitten and dragged him off. Dragged him to Light knows where, hasty and almost careless of where they stumbled and settled. 

When Reynauld finally released him, they were in a secret room somewhere hidden away from the others, separate but not far. Dismas knew how Reynauld could get when he was in these moods, knew he wanted at least a few walls between him and the others for when he finally --

A loud clatter startled Dismas' already-frayed nerves and he swung around, still on edge and living off of barely more than the adrenaline coursing in his veins, loud and fast. He saw Reynauld throw his bascinet to the ground after his discarded gloves and exposed hard eyes, a hard nose, a hard mouth set into a deep frown that pulled at the scar on his cheek. His eyes glinted the color of an unforgiving frost, blind to anything that wasn't Dismas grinning up at him, cheeky and aloof, and those eyes narrowed at his moxie, his audacity, his smirking near-death petulance.

Dismas had faced down batshit cultists, Eldritch monstrosities, a bloodthirsty Tardif and worse, but nothing thrilled him more than seeing Reynauld like _this_.

"Something on your mind, Crusader?" Between the lilt in his voice and his shit eating grin, Dismas knew that Reynauld saw right through him. _Good_. He wanted the other man to see the way his breath hitched in anticipation, the way his pulse sang at that angry, impassioned glare directed at him, at Dismas and _only_ Dismas.

"You nearly _died_ , Dismas," his voice was like a whip and the Highwayman drank it up as if a heady tonic, a challenge that swam to his core and turned him from reason.

"But I didn't."

"Only because of Junia. _You_ should have never broken formation like that, it was idiotic and _reckless_." He punctuated each sentence with a bare, pointing finger at Dismas' chest. "There’s a reason the Heir sends me at the helm of our expeditions when you're involved."

_Dirty talk, eh?_ Two could play at that game. "What, and let you have all the fun? You forget you had just sunk to your knees from the mad prophet's previous barrage."

Reynauld scoffed, dismissive and scathing and so fucking _hot_ the way his brows drew close, the way his eyes narrowed and hardened, the way his lips rose upward in a sneer. That self-righteous fortitude, the unwavering self-confidence that straightened his shoulders to a long line. Dismas would see it all crumble to his will if the damned Crusader would just shut the fuck up for a moment. "I would have been fine. My armor would have held."

"I can see the cracks in your armor, old man." Dismas approached him then, slowly, a smile crawling his lips wide at the way Reynauld tried to hide the massive rift split into his plate and glared down at Dismas. Tried to hide the way his eyebrows twitched at his approach, at the gaze traveling up and down Dismas' body. "You can lie to the Light, but you can't lie to _me_."

"Bloody fool. I'll tie you to your bunk before I let you step in front of me again." From this close, Dismas could see the thudding of the holy man's pulse, lightning quick at his neck. All of his bluster and bravado, his anger and white hot censure for Dismas' imprudent actions, was exposed for what it truly was beneath the goosebumped skin that pulsed and threaded with unspent energy. 

It was _irresistible_. Fierce and ravenous.

"That better be a promise," Dismas whispered, menacing in his near-death lust, and he dove up to press his open mouth to that pulse point, throbbing hot and hard and salty at his tongue. Reynauld groaned, loud and as if liberated, he grasped Dismas by the waist and pressed him close.

_This_ is what he had wanted, what they had _both_ been fighting each other for from the moment Reynauld had slid Dismas free from the rubble, touches hard and relieved, gazes thick with hunger and frustration. It was only a matter of time, and when Reynauld was in these moods, it was a matter of _sooner_ rather than later. Reynauld could act high and mighty all he wanted, but his thundering threats and holy barbs were meaningless when Dismas inevitably had his thick cock swallowed between his lips the moment they were alone together afterwards.

Reynauld gasped and writhed like a man on fire when Dismas sucked the chill-flecked skin at his neck, at his throat and collar and shoulder as Dismas slowly unveiled the other man from his tabard. He grasped at Reynauld's armor, at the clasps and creases, clumsy with his fervid desire and yanked them loose. Reynauld pushed him back, eyes hard but touch gentle and he removed his plate, his hauberk, and eventually his gambeson until his chest was bare and naked for Dismas' greedy mouth to explore. Slowly, Dismas inched down, down, down his beard to his throat, his collarbones, his thick pectorals that peaked to his small, pink nipples. Unlike Dismas, Reynauld didn't care to have his played with, but they hardened to nubs regardless and Dismas still tried, still savored the sharp gasp and hand forcibly yanking him away. He smirked up at the other man who just glared down at him, all serious, all solemn and sexy and not giving Dismas an inch of freedom, just as he liked it.

His hands were in Dismas' coat a moment later, coaxing it off his shoulders and down his arms, surprisingly tender in all of Reynauld's obvious haste to unclothe him. It dropped to the floor with a heavy sound, and Dismas let the Crusader yank his scarf free from his neck to join the leather padded coat. His neck was bare now and Dismas shivered, both from the sudden chill of the ruins and Reynauld's heavy-lidded gaze. 

"Your shirt," a demand, not a question. It made Dismas smirk -- Reynauld got bossier when he was hot and bothered, if such a thing were even possible.

" _Impatient_ , are we?"

The Crusader just loomed over him, breath hot on Dismas' face, eyes dark and amorous. "I'm not asking again." Reynauld spoke with a deep, husky voice that made Dismas bite his bottom lip, that same commanding voice that he came to again and again when Reynauld got in these moods. Like a trained mutt being called by its master, it flushed Dismas' ears red hot and stirred something in him, something that begged to give in to the other man.

He couldn't, though, not just yet. Not without some cheek, at least. "I don't remember you asking at all," he griped, rolling his eyes and feigning nonchalance. He knew by the way his normally steady hands shook at his collar, fumbling with the damnably numerous buttons at his shirt, that Reynauld saw right through his indifferent facade. 

As if to prove his point, Reynauld reached up, large hand threading in the short scruff at the back of Dismas' neck, and drew him forward. 

Their lips met, finally, jarringly, hard and hot and hungry. Dismas didn't know what had taken so long, why he had resisted at all, why they hadn't done this the moment Reynauld freed him from the rubble like a savior of zealous rage and anger. Their teeth clicked from their mutual impatience, their kiss wet and sloppy, but Dismas didn't care. He _needed_ this, needed _him_ , needed this bastion of all things Light and good in the world mooring him down and holding him close. He felt the haunts of insanity slipping from his mind, the stress bleeding from his pinched shoulders, chased away by their heady kiss -- not to be replaced by any form of sanity but instead witless to anything that wasn't _this_. His mind blanked and his senses reeled to anything that wasn't Reynauld's possessive mouth claiming his own, Reynauld's deft tongue glossing his bottom lip, chapped as it was, Reynauld’s hand reaching for his shirt. 

It was then Dismas realized that his own hands had frozen at the top button, not even able to undo the first of many down his shirt. Damned Crusader and his distracting tongue. 

Reynauld pulled back just slightly and huffed, breath warm and a luscious mix between a laugh and a scoff. He swatted away Dismas' hands and grabbed the front of his collar himself, and Dismas knew a second too late what the Crusader meant to do. Fingers quick and forceful, Reynauld yanked the front of his shirt open in one nimble motion, tearing the buttons either out or off entirely and sending a few flying from the force. The shirt was ruined and Dismas would have to walk back to their camp like this, but suddenly Reynauld’s hands were against his bare skin, feverish with his wanting, and he found he didn't care, _couldn't_ care. Not about anything that wasn't the hard pad of Reynauld’s thumb circling his pert nipple, that wasn't his large palm and long fingers tracing down Dismas' back to the hem of his pants, that wasn't the hard outline of his cock straining against his canvas pants. 

Dismas stood there, face flushed red and mouth parted with every breath as Reynauld touched him, fingers firmly tracing down the muscles of his abdomen, dipping low to tease at the fine, dark hairs just below his pant line, then back up to a hardened nipple _torturously_. 

They stayed like that -- Dismas didn't know for how long -- Reynauld watching the way Dismas became compliant as puddy beneath his hands, shivering every time he grazed over a sensitive nipple or baited further and _further_ below the hem of his pants. It must not have been long, not with how quick-tempered and aggressive Reynauld became in these moods, and soon his demanding mouth found Dismas' carnal slackened one. It was all the highwayman could focus on, that slick tongue at his lips once more, not asking but commanding. 

When Dismas didn't immediately open to him, Reynauld's hands inched lower until he cupped Dismas' backside and pulled his hips towards him, against his groin, rolling the highwayman's lap against his own. Dismas gasped and moaned darkly at the surprising contact, compelling his mouth open hot and needy to Reynauld's insisting beckon.

His tongue found Dismas' immediately, erotic and intrusive and more than accepted, wanted, _needed_ , mind still blank to anything that wasn't this man, hands still at his ass and tongue down his throat. He didn't even realize that Reynauld had moved him back, inching towards something, anything, to steady them lest they wind up fucking on the dirt-crusted floor of the secret room. Dismas wouldn't have even minded in this state, didn't mind the harsh and abrupt press of something solid, edged into his lower back. A table, his muddied thoughts acknowledged -- somewhere to have the Light fucked out of him, his fevered body whined. 

Reynauld broke the kiss with a dirty sound, wet and careless, and moved down Dismas' jaw to his neck and bit at his pulse point, wild and erratic and flooding him with burning hot desire. At the same time, the Crusader arched his hips again, focusing that rolling pressure against Dismas' groin and tearing a pathetic noise from deep within his throat. He felt the smile against his neck, stubble scraping his skin and fluttering his pulse quick and timid as a rabbit at the slaughter. Reynauld knew he was his for the taking, but still he asked like the Flame-beloved devil that he was in these moods.

"No witty backtalk, Dismas?" came that maddening, gruff, blanketing murmur in his ear, blinding him by the lust it sparked in him and stifling whatever sharp retort he might have been able to bite out over the grinding at his hips, the pulsing in his veins, the smirk at his throat.

All he could do was shake his head, helpless, eyes clenched shut and cock throbbing and sensitive against his rough pants.

Of course that wasn't the end of it. Of course Reynauld wanted to draw this out, make Dismas succumb to his will, surprisingly mischievous and abusive when in these moods, stressed beyond the limits of what one man should be. He was broken, they both were, and the normally patient stalwart of Light and kindness instead took his supple tan skin between his teeth and _bit_ , sucked, licked. Marked him, coated him in shivers, _claimed_ Dismas for everyone to see. 

And Dismas _loved_ it. They both did.

When the horrors of the Hamlet shook their minds and shattered their resolves, they took comfort in each other. The soft kisses and gentle touches and loving words that Reynauld normally spared only for Dismas, there was no trace of that here.

"Are you going to surrender to me?" that baleful, baritone voice spoke to the blood pooling at Dismas' neck, reverberating to his pulsing core that he hitched forward to grind weakly against Reynauld's hip. The Crusader was vindictive in all of the best ways, still angry with Dismas for switching positions at the last second and nearly being lost to the Light beneath the prophet's prognostication. He wanted Dismas to obey, to submit to him in all the ways he hadn't during their treacherous battle. Dismas realized that it must have been then that Reynauld’s mind broke to the stress of seeing him beaten and bleeding beneath the stones.

Dismas had always been a masochist, always at the worst of times, and true to his nature he smirked against the Crusader's ear and whispered, " _Make me_."

It was a challenge that Reynauld had seemed to be hoping for and they parted, him drawing back and leaving Dismas lost to the chill air that flooded all the spaces Reynauld had been burning him alive in just moments ago. Dismas shivered, neck bleeding and marked and abandoned, but knew he had to be patient as Reynauld picked his coat off the ground and dug around in it, taking his sweet fucking time as his fierce eyes scoured Dismas' body. His shirt still hung loose and open on him, the buttons that had survived Reynauld's rough handling hanging by mere threads. It seemed an apt analogy, Dismas' more poetic side thought. Eventually, Reynauld drew out a vial from Dismas' coat pocket -- his gun oil, he knew without even looking -- and set it on the table behind Dismas with a loud and foreboding _clink_. 

Guess Dismas wouldn't be polishing his guns later, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when Reynauld stared down at him like a predator, hungry for the chase. Dismas knew better, knew by the way Reynauld's pupils blew wide with his impatience, that he wouldn't put up with the chase for long. 

He pulled Dismas forward by his belt buckle roughly, hips thrust close and straining erection exigent against his pants. 

The metal sound of his buckle unlatching, then the quiet hiss of his belt being yanked away quickly, then the clatter of it being thrown to the floor, forgotten, it rang in Dismas' ears with a satisfying, _filthy_ promise. His pants hung looser on him without the belt, the stress of the Hamlet and living off of nothing but rations and whiskey narrowing his waist more than he liked and peaking his hip bones out past his hem line. If Reynauld noticed, he didn't say anything and instead pressed his palm to the incessant bulge beneath the fabric of his pants, stretched painfully tight in front with his want.

Dismas groaned and pressed closer, the little bit of attention to his aching cock overwhelming but not enough. _Not enough_. He heard Reynauld’s chuckle above him, torturous and ungodly beautiful as his hand moved slowly, lazily, back and forth down the length of him. _Fucking tease_.

"You're sure taking your sweet time, old man," Dismas hissed through gritted teeth, taking every ounce of what little self-control he had to not grind to completion in that damnable hand, thick and all-encompassing. He watched Reynauld's thumb trace the ridge of the tip, outlined hard against the fabric, and he swallowed back a whimper. 

He laughed again, lowly and patronizingly, and Dismas couldn't help but wonder where this new well of patience came from. "You know what I want to hear, Dismas."

_Fucking gods_. So _that's_ where his sadistic, newfound composure blossomed, the sick bastard. Dismas panted out a frustrated huff, eyes squeezed shut again, and tried not to immediately give in. To at least have some semblance of dignity, or at the very least an ounce of shame. 

But the longer that warm palm squeezed at him, sliding up and down him with languid movements, the wider Reynauld's punishing smile grew against Dismas' forehead, the more desperate and wanton Dismas became. 

Shameless, he ducked his head forward, his sweaty brow leaned against Reynauld's broad collar, and grit his teeth. "By the fucking Light, Rey."

A heartbeat, a tense moment, a shaky breath and he whispered, " _Please_."

That was all it took, the bloody sod, the insatiable Light-awful prig, to move his hand from Dismas' wanting crotch to the clasp at his pants and for an anxious moment, Dismas worried that he'd impatiently tear that free, too, and the Highwayman would have to walk back to camp naked. Junia and Audrey would never let him live that down, the perverted hags. But thank the fucking Flame, Reynauld had enough sense to undo his pants and help him out of them, then tossed them and his undershorts to the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. With Dismas all but bare save for his ruined shirt, the cold of the dungeon nipped at his skin where Reynauld had warmed just moments ago. Before he could complain, Reynauld was there again, mouth to his hungrily and a sinful heat _searing_ all the places missing his touch. Need dripped from his rigid cock and slicked Reynauld's palm when he reached between them, and Dismas was quick to thrust his hips up, needing that long-awaited pressure and crying out when he found it. 

He rocked against Reynauld's hand, his face flushed and eyes screwed shut as he leaned back against the table on his elbows. His chest and stomach were covered in a sweaty sheen from the sheer force of self-control, slipping away with every short thrust into Reynauld's hot palm. He could cum like this, he thought wildly, senses abandoned, leaned back against this hard table, splayed out before Reynauld and thighs tense as he messed in the Crusader's demanding hand. 

As if reading his thoughts, Reynauld released his throbbing prick now hot and slicked from his own precum, and Dismas groaned out in angry frustration. 

" _Fuck_ , Rey!" He had to cover his face with his hands, bright red with embarrassment at how pathetic he sounded. His voice broke, his thighs shook, and his erection throbbed, but he'd all but beg to get that pressure back. "I already said _please_!"

He felt Reynauld lean over him, bare chest brushing against Dismas', a low chuckle in his ear and scruff against his cheek and neck.

"Turn over."

Dismas' breath caught in his throat at the command, face still burning hot with embarrassment, and he peered at the Crusader between the safety of his hands, watched him lean back up to give Dismas room to do as he was told. _Turn over?_ It took him a moment to register that -- Reynauld had never taken him like that before, the sentimental, besotted fool always wanting to have Dismas facing him for some reason or another. It had been awkward and uncomfortable for Dismas at first, who usually preferred his face buried in a pillow or cheek against a wall, ass up and ready. 

That had been before Reynauld, before Dismas was kissed through his orgasms and touched tenderly as he came down afterwards.

A sharp slap to his thigh startled him out of his reverie, in harsh contrast to his thoughts, and he was quick to oblige the other man. Face red, he quickly turned over so he was leaned atop the old wooden table, ass perked and legs tense. He felt Reynauld stand behind him and it was a comfort as his large hand slid over the cut of Dismas' hips, the gentle curve of his backside, down to stroke his thighs further apart. Dismas was nervous, but for what, he didn't know. He trusted the Crusader with his life and more, but this was different somehow, and not being able to see the other man, to not have his lips at his own any time he wished made him annoyingly anxious. 

Reynauld seemed to be able to feel that nervous energy, alight just beneath Dismas' hot skin, because he stroked back up to the knobs of his spine and lower back and hushed him. The larger man bent over him again, hand still tracing soothing outlines against his flushed body, and rumbled in his ear, "You can stop me any time," then left him with a loving kiss against his shoulder. 

_Oh hell._ That only made the anticipation clench tighter in Dismas' stomach, the low growl and soft kiss. That was a promise, a vow, a threat, and it chilled Dismas' skin with goosebumps. 

Without any additional warning, a fierce _slap_ smacked his bare ass cheek, echoing in the room and drawing a loud gasp from Dismas' chest. It stung, smarted in the shape of Reynauld's large hand, and sent shivering pain blooming across Dismas' lower body. Silence then, a pause as if Reynauld were waiting for Dismas to protest, or at the very least awaiting a barrage of his normal witticism, but no. He gave neither assurance nor denial, and instead just waited for more. Reynauld was quick to indulge him after that, quick with the palm of his hand and quick to decorate Dismas' tan skin with even more of his obscene marks, as if to say _'mine'_.

The next one wasn't as shocking, but stung all the same, skin like searing fire one moment then icy cold with bright pain washing over him the next.

The third stroke against his raw, quivering backside whispered of pleasure, sparked something straight to his half-softened prick and made him gasp again. Reynauld could hear it in him, hear the desperation that he choked back with the next slap, see the way his back arched his ass up for more, thoughtless to anything but the blinding pain and waves of pleasure. 

"Light above, Dismas," Reynauld spoke, voice barely above a whisper. 

He was sure he looked a mess, shirt bunched up his sides to free his hips, buttocks red and raw and exposed, knees shaking and sweat pooling in the dip of his back. But whatever Reynauld saw seemed to take his breath away and he ran a calloused hand down Dismas' stinging, welted skin. It made him flinch, made him arch into the gentle touch, made him groan to the dusty table littered with trinkets and bags and Light-knows-what, heart pounding and skin on fire. He felt Reynauld slide his thumb down the cleft of his cheeks, featherlight and teasing, and his breath hitched in his throat at the very implication it left. 

" _Please_ ," he whispered, thoughtless to the shame and dignity he might have once held. Whatever it took for Reynauld to finally take him, give him everything those fingers promised. "Please, Rey, you fucking Saint of all things lewd and perverse, just -- "

_Slap._

"I will excise that black tongue of profanity and more, sinner." This blow brought tears to his eyes, squeezed shut and mouth gaping wet spittle in the dust below him, thoughtless, desperate, aching. It was sharper than the first, either from Dismas' already tortured backside still propped up on display or from Reynauld gaining confidence, each spank to his tender skin more cutting than the last. The stinging soreness that followed was biting, bracing, poignant and Dismas savored it.

Voice caught, he all but whimpered, " _Please_ , Reynauld."

Whatever the Crusader had been looking for in the broken, shattered man, that seemed to be it. His hand moved away leaving only cold air to kiss the bitter welts left behind, and Dismas' heart picked up when he heard him grab the glass vial of gun oil next to them and unstopper it. He was intoxicated from the dull pain still pulsing down his backside which slowly abated to flustered excitement, and his legs widened of their own volition, so fucking _ready_ for whatever was to come next. 

After a moment of growing impatience, ass wriggling in anticipation, Dismas finally felt Reynauld take his place behind him once more. His heart hammered in his chest, feeling blind to the other man's intentions after shocking him with this position then shocking him further with his harsh punishment. 

_"Rey…"_ he all but mewled, face pressed against the dirty table, nearly lost and untethered without the other man's hands on him, those lips his for the taking and those eyes soft and lidded as they watched him unravel. 

His cock throbbed heavily between his legs along with his sore backside, heart pounding in his ears and pulse wild, and it spiked harshly when he finally felt Reynauld's thick fingers, covered in slick oil, stroking down between his cheeks. Dismas was wrecked with a full-body shudder and gasped at the cool touch which pushed further down the cleft of his ass, tight and tense, until slowly Reynauld found his entrance. He exhaled a shaky breath as Reynauld's wide fingertip circled him, passing over his very core with gentle touches and an unexpected patience. 

For how much he had just ravaged his tender skin, Dismas was surprised that Reynauld hadn't jumped to fucking him open already. 

Instead, the tip of his forefinger curled, slightly, another promise, another implication that filled Dismas with unnerved anxiety as it teased the center of him. He wanted to curse at the Crusader, to tell him to hurry on with it, that only a fool takes his time while still in enemy territory, but then that very finger suddenly entered him and Dismas was speechless. 

"You're too tense, Dismas," Reynauld murmured above him, and it made Dismas blush helplessly. He didn't want the other man's opinion, he just wanted him to fuck him senseless. Was that too much to ask for? He tried to come back with a scathing response, but they all sounded pathetic in his head when he couldn't trust his voice, then suddenly that finger was moving, gently, coating his opening in slick and coaxing in further, just slightly, just enough to make Dismas lose his words.

There was another hand at his skin then, cupping his hip and rubbing his rigid body soothingly. Dismas thought back to all the times they had done this before, the way he taught Reynauld to take care of him, prepare him to be fucked hard and _raw_ , and the way the Crusader had added his own tender twist to it. The way Reynauld would stroke up his thigh in encouragement, would lean over to whisper loving nothings against Dismas' skin as he barely managed to take in his entire length, would give him a passionate kiss once they managed to settle their hips together, flush and warm and so fucking lewd. 

Dismas wanted that now, so bad, and forced himself to relax. Maybe there _was_ some trick to being able to see each other, to see the way Reynauld's eyes devoured every hitched breath contorting Dismas' face in pain and pleasure, to see the way that thick head _pushed_ him open then was lost within him, steady and forceful.

Slowly, he took in Reynauld’s entire finger, tip to knuckle, feeling the hint of pleasure settle in just past the almost painful stretching sensation. When had Reynauld gotten so confident in this that he could boss Dismas around on how to take something up the ass? He almost said as much, but the hand at his hip tightened its grip, no longer gentle and soothing but bracing and firm, and the long digit pulled back out, then in, not nearly as painstakingly slow this time. 

Between the spankings and Reynauld's teasing, Dismas was at full mast again, cock hard and needy and throbbing with every push and pull of the finger at his core. 

They fell into a rhythm now that Dismas wasn’t so tight and Reynauld’s large finger gave easily, slicking the highwayman inside and out until eventually he withdrew his finger entirely. There was a pause, anticipation thick in the air as Dismas tried to stay still, had to bite his tongue of the shameless complaints at the loss of the friction, heard the Crusader grab the gun oil once more and then returned with two slippery fingers. Dismas spread his legs further, arched his back wantonly, ready for more to fill him and heard Reynauld’s low chuckle. 

" _Now_ who's impatient?"

Before he could answer with something scathing, there was an abrupt slap that echoed in the room, shocking a strangled cry from Dismas as the pain surged through his tortured ass, spanked into a wordless submission once more. He heaved a breath, clenched cheek still ringing from the impact, and shivered as Reynauld palmed the sensitive skin, spreading his cheeks for his two fingers. 

"Fuck, _Reynauld_ ," Dismas gasped, then hissed as the two fingertips lined up with that tightened ring of muscle and pushed through, achingly slow and steady. 

The air caught in his chest and he froze, tried to relax, tried to remember the heavenly glide of Reynauld's lone digit just a moment ago, exhaled through his teeth, tried to relax again. The Crusader's other hand began its smooth circles once more, massaging comfort into the sore muscles of Dismas' ass, bless him. Knuckle by knuckle, Reynauld fitted his two fingers in tightly, filling Dismas to his core and making his eyes water again as they slowly pulled back out, then pushed back in. He felt the obscene stretch of his asshole accommodating the man's large fingers, preparing him for what was to come, and he angled his hips enough to press them back against the slick intrusions forcefully, wanting it faster, sooner. Impatient.

Reynauld seemed to take the hint and curled his fingers downward, down toward --

Dismas all but shouted the Crusader's name as he brushed against that sweet spot, that searing array of nerves that jolted him towards the edge, towards the looming precipice of his orgasm. Those Light-awful fingers worked his prostate the way he taught them to, jerking Dismas against the table as he looked for something to hold on to, anything, helplessly clawing at the wood with his blunted nails. Reynauld's fingertips curled perfectly enough that he stroked it with every movement, building a pressure so hot and heavy and desperate in Dismas that his erection gushed more beads of precum and his mind blanked to white.

" _Rey_ ," his voice cracked, soft and pitiful and carnal, and his vision swam with impending release. "I ain't gonna last, Rey, _please_."

He didn't know what he begged for, for the Crusader to stop or keep going, but Reynauld slowed his wrist at that helpless plea, touch gentle inside of him instead of harsh and relentless. It stopped the wave of pleasure pushing him towards his orgasm, but it left him aching inside and out for release. He was wound tight, pent up, body shivering from the unspent energy that quickened his pulse and throbbed at his dripping prick.

" _Gods_ , Reynauld, just _fuck me already_ ," Dismas' whine was unlike anything he had ever spared for anyone else, but he didn't mind as much with Reynauld. And even if he did, he couldn't help himself, not with the way the holy man still grazed that Light-awful spot, teasing and toying, the pinprick of pleasure that tightened his ass and shuddered his heart, made him see stars. " _I'm ready_ , Rey, for Light's sake."

When Reynauld spoke, his voice was thick with unbridled ardor, tight with barely restrained control. Dismas felt the Crusader press his large erection to the back of his thigh, hot and wet with his own slick smearing against Dismas' trembling skin. When had Reynauld taken his pants off? It made Dismas groan as it slid against him, not nearly close enough to where he needed it.

"Not yet."

Words that had been forced out, curt and damming the true desires so obviously warring within Reynauld. Dismas ground his hips back against his two fingers, as if to make the decision easier for the other man, and suddenly they were gone, pulled from his core like a well-oiled ramrod. Dismas choked out a sound at the bareness, the harsh empty feeling in stark contrast to those thick digits that had just filled him to the brim moments ago. 

He _needed_ it back. Needed that and more.

Dismas heard the sound of the gun oil vial being poured over again and without further warning, three fingers slid against his ass, tips stopping at that aching ring of muscle as if waiting for permission. Instead, Dismas laughed, a cracked noise so heavily drenched in his lust and impatience that it could have been a sob as well. 

" _Another?_ You must think highly of yourself, Crusader."

Reynauld spoke again in that clipped, strained voice and said, "You'll thank me later." It chilled Dismas, that and the three fingers just barely poking in, the slightest hint of pressure straining his entrance and a lewd promise for more than he could take. The other hand was back, not at Dismas' hip to sooth him this time, but between his shoulder blades and pressing him down, firm and forceful, until he was bent flat against the table with his ass angled up. _Fuck._ It stayed there, either to steady Dismas or to steady Reynauld, and for just a moment he felt those wet fingertips trembling, the Crusader's breath catching, and then they entered.

A raw shout was ripped from his throat as they slid in, his throbbing ring so slicked with oil that there wasn't nearly as much resistance as there should have been to the three digits, pressed up to the first knuckle. It made him feel filthy, how easily they slid in, how he welcomed it, and it made him moan hot and heavy, careless if the women heard them, careless if even the Collector heard them, if the Light itself heard them. 

The hand on his back was a great weight as he heard Reynauld inhale a shaky breath, then a shaky exhale, then pressed his fingers in further. It pierced a blinding light in Dismas' mind, more so than the spankings that still seared his ass cheeks red, and there were tears in Dismas' eyes at the relentless pressure pushing straight to his core. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed but so fucking _desperate_ that he wanted the fingers deeper, wanted to feel fuller despite the pain and discomfort overwhelming his whole body. That masochist streak in him, broken from the battle, begged for more with a hoarse want in his voice.

When he felt the final knuckle hilted in his ass, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, driven with a needy whine. Reynauld paused, as if _he_ were the one with three treetrunk fingers in his ass, and the hand at his shoulder blades lessened its weight to instead massage at his tense back muscles. It helped, and Dismas slowly relaxed under his soothing touch, which cleared the discomfort filling his lower body bit by bit.

"Light preserve me," Reynauld whispered, his warm cock still sliding against Dismas' thigh, torturously. If Dismas wasn't still accommodating those massive fingers in his stretched ass, he might scoff. Was the blasted Crusader really praying _now_ , of all times?

"Else I could lose myself just from the sight of you."

Dismas turned his head to hide the blush at his cheeks, but knew Reynauld could see it anyway. The smitten fool. The embarrassing git was _terrible_ at dirty talk, and Dismas swallowed his heart that clenched in his throat before he could growl back, "If you don't fuck me _now, Reynauld, I swear to your holy Light that I'll sick Sarmenti on you when we return."_

__

__

That dark, deep chuckle washed over him and flushed his tan skin pink, hot everywhere the Crusader touched. He ached, and moaned when the fingers pulled back, then rammed back in. It slammed his hips against the edge of the table and Dismas yelped at the force. Again, they drew back, just to shake the table once more with the merciless thrust back to his very center. The hand at his back held him still, held him in place while Reynauld fucked his ass open with his three thick fingers until Dismas was limp beneath him. He couldn't complain, couldn't beg, couldn't even speak as stars swam before his vision. 

Eventually, finally, Reynauld pulled back entirely, leaving Dismas bereft and boneless against the table, knees shaking his thighs uselessly as he tried to sit up to look over his shoulder at what the other man was doing. 

The sight caught his breath in his chest painfully as he watched Reynauld finish off the bottle of gun oil, pouring the remainder of it on his erect prick, tip to shaft, stroking it slick. Dismas turned away sharply to press his forehead to the table, jittery nerves suddenly returning in full force and pumping his blood hotter. This is what he wanted, what he had wantonly begged the Crusader for, but his mouth was dry and his knees gave out at the sight of him, ready to give him everything he asked. 

"Turn back over." 

A command that Dismas was desperate to obey. He quickly did as he was told, face fully flushed as he again drank in the sight of the man, thick and bare and glossed with sweat despite the chill of the stone room. Reynauld was on him immediately, mouth searching for his own slack-jawed one and claiming it in a frenzied kiss. He felt Reynauld's stubble graze his chin as they slotted their lips together, hard and painful and hungry. It was messy and wet, bruising until Dismas' tongue yielded to his. As they embraced, Reynauld reached up with bare hands and buried them past Dismas' tattered shirt, threadbare and bloodied from the battle with the prophet, then gently draped it from his shoulders to fully expose the smaller man. The fabric slid off him easily and crumpled on the dusty table, and Dismas shivered at the fresh stretches of skin finally exposed to the biting chill. 

Reynauld was there, running his palms back up Dismas' arms to his shoulders to his neck, chasing away the goosebumps that bloomed from the cold, until they finally settled cupped at his neck to tilt Dismas' head back, deepening the kiss to him. 

Those irritating jitters melted away beneath Reynauld's open mouth, commanding and comforting. Dismas' head spun from the heady solace and he was compliant, embarrassingly submissive, and when Reynauld's large hands reached down to the back of Dismas' thighs, then lifted him up with one smooth motion, Dismas wouldn't stop him, couldn't. His ass was propped against the table and Reynauld pushed them both, scraping the table backwards until it hit something firm -- a bookshelf. Reynauld pulled back then, lips bruised, eyes glazed, hair disheveled and Dismas knew he'd throw himself to death's door a million times more for this look. 

Wordless, hands still at Dismas' trembling thighs, he pulled him to the edge of the table then pushed them open and held them there with a firm grip. Dismas felt flushed, red all over, embarrassed from how exposed he was, and when Reynauld blessedly lined himself up, Dismas breathed out a soft, " _Oh fuck_." 

That chuckle came from over him and strong thumbs massaged loving circles into the backs of his quad muscles, tense and sweaty. When Dismas looked up, away from the slick member at his entrance, Reynauld caught him in another kiss. They stayed like that for a long moment, Dismas relaxing enough that Reynauld's hands didn't feel so bruising as they propped him up and open, and the silky cockhead at the cleft of his ass slid forward. 

Dismas gasped into the kiss, finally, achingly succumbing to his lust as he arched his back at the thick length entering him. Reynauld was still after that, tense, full body flexed hard and tight as he barely remained in control. It irritated Dismas, that after so long of winding him up, the blasted Crusader would stop now under the guise of being some kind of gentleman, some bleeding heart that didn't want to nail him to the table then and there. Dismas knew better, bit at the other man's lip, and slid his hips forward to take more of the damned fool into him. 

The sound that tore through Reynauld wracked Dismas with shivers and he was hot all over, the groan animalistic, carnal and gutterral as Dismas did it again. He inched the thick cock deeper and deeper, pausing every few moments to adjust to the overfull-feeling. It was different from Reynauld's fingers, sore and satisfying and so fucking _filled_ to the brim of his ass. 

Reynauld stood so very still, the Light-bedamned, loving sod that he was, letting Dismas do all the work as he stuffed himself full of the man's pulsing erection, oiled and heavy and so fucking _wide_. He was internally grateful that Reynauld took such care to prepare him for this, even if he _did_ use all of his expensive gun oil to do so. Not that he'd ever express that gratitude in any other way than inching himself down on the supple, throbbing prick. Dismas threw his head back as he took in the rest, thoughts abandoned, shameless and loud as he called Reynauld's name, the other man's groin slotted snugly against Dismas' punished buttocks. The Crusader was bent over, mouth parted and brows furrowed, strained with desire and Dismas etched it to memory the best he could through lust-blurred eyes. 

The tears gathered in his vision and he turned his head, adjusted, relaxed, tried to ease that tight ring of muscle that gripped Reynauld so fiercely at his core. 

He leaned back against the bookshelf, panting as if he had just done the impossible, knocking over Light-knows-what from the table and shelves as he did so. He had no mind for them, only for those piercing eyes that peered down at him through a haze, lidded and unfocused on anything that wasn't _him_. Dismas shivered at the predatory glint returned to Reynauld's eyes, felt the anticipation build in his groin and loosen his body's tension in expectancy. He nodded up at the other man and that was all it took. 

Thank the fucking Light Reynauld had used the entire bottle, had been so keen to stretch him open. His hips drew back, slow and smooth, then pushed forward, spilling tears from his eyes and cock alike. It was slow, restrained at first, but true to form, Reynauld started to crack at the edges and bit down on Dismas' neck again, adding more marks to his skin. 

Dismas tried to spread his legs further, already painfully wide for the other man and printed from Reynauld's strong grip. He felt helpless, held in place against the table and fucked open with a methodical rhythm, mind blank to anything that wasn't the pressure sliding in and out, building him up and making him moan wantonly. Reynauld lapped at the small dots of blood he summoned with his sharp bite, then licked up higher to Dismas' throbbing pulse point and tongued at the sweat that gathered there, then gruffly rumbled against Dismas' blushing ear, " _Do you submit?_ " 

A whine, a hiccup, a pleading nodding of the head and a whispered "Gods _yes_ , Rey," and Dismas was his. 

The next thrust shook the table and Dismas cried out. He didn't recognize his own voice anymore, more fitting for the brothel than for a champion of the Hamlet, but the way Reynauld fucked into him, deep and hard and all-consuming, he might as well have been at the pleasure chambers. His shoulders ached from their place on the bookshelf as Reynauld leaned him in half, gripping Dismas' thighs white as if they were something to anchor himself with as he thrust in, out. Dismas could see why he buffered the table back against the tall bookshelf, now, but the thought left him as quickly as it came and was lost to the luscious, slippery slide ramming his very core. 

His body arched and writhed as he was ravaged, blushing madly when he heard the filthy wet slapping of Reynauld's groin to his ass. Fucking _gods above_ , the Crusader was absolutely obscene when he got in these moods, and it made every agonizing, teasing, torturous moment leading up to this worthwhile. 

There was a sharp sound as the table splintered against the bookshelf but neither of them cared, too lost to the grinding pressure and building heat between them. Reynauld's face was contorted in sinful ecstasy, mouth opened as he growled out something carnal, sensual, a deep sound that sent shockwaves of need straight to Dismas' neglected prick. Unable to help himself, Dismas thrust his hips down, angled, meeting Reynauld's rhythm thrust for thrust. His body needed it, needed him deeper, harder, and he closed his eyes to the salacious sight of Reynauld thrust to the very base within him, heart racing and chest panting. Explicit cries echoed in the room with each jolt, _his_ cries, accompanied by the pounding of the table into the bookshelf. 

For a brief moment, Dismas wondered if the entire ruins, the entire Hamlet could hear them, loud and shameless and lost, but then Reynauld's hands moved from his thighs to his waist and suddenly Dismas was lifted from the table. His sex-addled mind was slow to keep up, but his hips blessedly adjusted of their own accord, natural as breathing, accommodating this new position as Reynauld picked him up in his arms and pressed him up against the bookshelf. 

It seemed to give Reynauld more leverage, more access, maybe, as he pumped into Dismas hard and fast, cock slick and unrelenting. Dismas let the tears fall, mouth open wide for his moans which were swallowed up by Reynauld who kissed him harshly, heavenly. 

Acting on instinct, Dismas wrapped his sore legs around Reynauld's hips, bruises already forming from the Crusader's harsh grasp moments ago, hoping to anchor himself somehow. This new position favored his aching cock and he whined into Reynauld's mouth as he arched it against the solid stomach lined with taut muscles. It slicked the skin between them both with hot precum and Dismas was mindless, rutting against the Crusader's abdomen and feeling his release grow close. He tried to pull back, tried to warn the other man, but strong arms kept him still and Reynauld held him in place as he was finally ground over the edge. 

Dismas went stiff, tears still spilling over his eyes and keen cry lost to Reynauld who fucked him through his orgasm. His mind peaked white and his body clenched around the relentless dick in his ass, still fucking the hot come from him with a carnal rhythm. Their stomachs were sticky with his mess, still dripping from the head of his cock with every thrust of the Crusader into him. He could tell by Reynauld's stuttering hips that he was close, too, probably in large part to Dismas' tight entrance still milking him greedily, helplessly. 

The bookshelf shook and objects fell from Reynauld's near-climax frenzy, all around them, some things landing with a sharp crack or a wet thump, but Reynauld spared them no thought save to bring Dismas closer. Still protective. Still his stalwart, even when pushed to an abusive insanity that spanked and bit Dismas raw. 

Moments later, the breath left Dismas' chest as his back was slammed against the bookshelf and Reynauld tensed, spasmed within him, came hard with short, jerky thrusts and a deep bellow of Dismas' name. The Highwayman saw stars, flushed red at the warmth within him, both of them taut and breathless and still. Eventually the moment passed and Dismas felt boneless against the other man, who carried him back to the table and all but collapsed against it with him. 

Reynauld's body was warm and feverish against his, both of them sliding with sweat and cum alike, and when the Crusader finally pulled out, Dismas ducked his head in embarrassment. The afterwards were always the worst, the best, as they came down together exhausted and fell back to reality, far less stressed than before. Reynauld kissed at each of his throbbing bite marks as if a silent apology, gentle and loving and in harsh contrast to the mood he had been in prior. Dismas ran his shaking hand through the holy man's thick, brown hair, curled and disheveled with sweat, threading his fingers absently and enjoying the tender touches compared to the full-body ache he suffered. From the battle, from rubble, from the Crusader fucking him into blessed submission. 

Featherlight, Reynauld trailed his kisses up Dismas' throat and jaw to just below his ear, a sweet smile on his lips that he pressed into the Highwayman's neck. 

Voice low, hoarse from their lovemaking, so soft and gentle that it broke Dismas' heart, Reynauld whispered against his clammy skin -- 

"I love you." 

Dismas was wrecked with a full-body shiver at that, as if he had been torn apart and roughly fucked all over again, then put back together with a tender kiss to his pulse point, then his lips, modest and chaste and overwhelming with adoration. 

He left him then, propped up on one hand to brush Dismas' cheek with a neverending fondness in those glacier eyes for just a moment longer before he leaned back. Dismas' heart was in his throat, beaten and battered and broken and belonging to this damnable man in every sense of the word, but his chest caught the words before he could speak them and they instead strained in his heart, painfully. It didn't matter, though, for after they wiped off, after they dressed and equipped their weapons and returned to normalcy, they kissed once more at the door of the secret room, slow and reverent, and Dismas knew he didn't need to say anything at all by the way Reynauld smiled at him after they parted. 

Their walk back to their camp was quiet and peaceful. They didn't hold hands -- they weren't lovesick pups in their adolescence, Dismas thought with a defiant flush -- but they did exchange glances a few times and once, Reynauld stopped him to fix his cowl, adjust it so it covered the marks better. 

Dismas didn't know how long they took or how loud they were, but he internally said a rare prayer to the Light and the Flame and whatnot that the women were in bed upon their return. 

They weren't. 

Whether it was cosmic karma for all of his misdeeds in life or some malicious prankster of a god above that loved to make Dismas suffer, Junia and Audrey snapped to attention at their return. Dismas only hoped that they hadn't been overheard, but judging by Junia's full-face blush and Audrey's smirk accompanied by a coy thumbs up at them, that was clearly too good to be true for the likes of Dismas. 

Reynauld cleared his throat and Dismas yanked his neckerchief tighter, and they averted their gazes. 

When the women finally excused themselves to their respective tents sometime later -- later, after Dismas opted to remain standing instead of sitting while they ate, causing Audrey to roar with her hyena laugh and Junia to choke on her ration -- and left them alone again, Dismas' dark eyes flicked up to meet Reynauld's. The firelight was dying, giving the man a handsome glow that cast shadows down his cheeks into his stubble. He was met with that familiar, stoic smile, kind and sweet and gentle in all of the ways Dismas wasn't, and it made his heart clench. 

_I love you._

It was hard to focus on anything else after that, anything that wasn't the constant throbbing of his backside and clenching within his chest. 

Eventually, Reynauld cleared his throat and rose to standing, looking larger than ever in his plate and tabard as he looked down at Dismas with that same, patient fondness. His voice was quieter, softer, almost shy compared to what it had been when his resolve had been broken, and he asked, "Would you like to share my tent tonight?" 

Dismas had to look away, voice gruff and husky and not nearly as nonchalant as he intended when he shrugged and responded, "Sure. Why not." 

Audrey's jeering catcall echoed in their stonewalled campsite after them from her side of the room as they retreated to the Crusader's tent and let the flap fall shut. 

**Author's Note:**

> Me at the start of this series: Boy, I've never written smut before, I sure hope I can figure out something to write
> 
> Me at the end of this series: Is almost 50 pages of pwp normal?
> 
> Any feedback will help me write better smut.


End file.
